The Man From Milwaukee

by Rick R. Reed

  He waged a war with himself ever since they lived in the neighborhood about going inside, just to “check it out.” But so far, the side he called his decent side, had won out and he’d never set foot in the door. But now, he told himself he’d already been in a gay bar in the recent past, so why not go in another?

  Dahmer had told him to seek out the “distractions” in his city. And if ever there was a time for distractions, Emory thought, now was it. He needed distraction from loss, loneliness, and the feeling there was no one else like him in the whole world.

  The place was dark, but not so dark he couldn’t see every eye in the place turn Emory’s way when he walked in. The bartender, a bald guy with a Fu Manchu mustache and wearing a leather vest and tight jeans, paused in drawing a beer from the tap to eye him. Except for one man, sitting in the red light from the jukebox near the end of the bar, all ten or so patrons swiveled their heads to take a gander at the fresh meat.

  Emory froze in the doorway, afraid to move, afraid of breaching some unknown bar etiquette.

  But he had to move. It would be too awkward to simply back out now and even more awkward to just stand there, with his “thumb up his ass” as Mary Helen might say.

  So he took a few quick steps to the closest stool at the bar and perched on it. The bartender shot him a lopsided grin and hurried over. “What are you having tonight, handsome?”

  Emory had to resist the urge to look behind himself for this “handsome” stranger. He smiled back and managed to find his voice. He’d seen ads for Miller beer, the champagne of beers, on TV, so he asked for one of those.

  “We have it on tap or in bottles. Which can I get you?”

  Emory wanted to ask if there was a difference in taste but resisted that impulse too.

  The bartender added, with a wink, “Tap’s cheaper. Tonight, we’re having a quarter special.”

  “It’s only a quarter?” Emory asked, failing to keep the surprise out of his voice.

  The bartender nodded. “I can see we don’t have a spendthrift here. I’ll get you a nice, frosty mug.”

  He turned and Emory tried and failed to force his gaze away from the rise and fall of his ass in those tight, faded-to-nearly-white Levi 501s. He watched as the bartender pulled the beer, letting the golden liquid slide up the side of the glass, and when it was nearly full with a perfect white head on the top, he set it before Emory along with a napkin.

  “There you go. You wanna run a tab?”

  Emory immediately thought of the pink cans of Tab his mother used to drink and then giggled. He shook his head and groped around in his back pocket for his wallet. He pulled out a dollar and set it on the bar. “Thank you.” He took a sip of the beer and decided he liked it.

  The bartender took the dollar and asked if he wanted change. Emory did, but he shook his head. This gesture earned him another wink from the bartender, who stuck out his hand. “I’m Eric. Just whistle if you need anything else.” He set a bowl of peanuts before Emory. “I haven’t seen you in here before.”

  “That’s because I’ve never been here.” Emory took another long swallow. The beer was refreshing, especially after suffering the heat outside. They had the air-conditioning cranked up, which was a blessing. The chill was delightful, even if he did have to put up with the stench of cigarette smoke. About half, or maybe even more, of the patrons had cigarettes burning. A pall of blue-gray smoke hung just below the black, painted-tin ceiling.

  “Well, I hope it won’t be the last time we see you here, sexy man.”

  Emory felt heat rise to his cheeks, and his mouth dropped open.

  “Don’t look so surprised. You’re hot. I hope you come back.”

  “Hey, Eric! My glass is empty!” A fat guy in a yellow tank top whined from across the bar, and Eric went to quiet him.

  Emory was glad to be alone. The bartender, frankly, frightened him.

  As he drank his beer and took in the other patrons—all what he’d call middle-aged men—it surprised Emory that they all looked what he would call normal. Nobody in here seems swishy. Maybe this isn’t a gay bar after all. He quickly dismissed the latter thought when he focused on how the bartender had shamelessly flirted with him. Plus, there was the fact that the walls were decorated with black-and-white photographs of wildly muscled men, shirtless, in locales like garages, factories, and leaning against eighteen-wheelers. Sweat glistened on their bodies, even in the dim light. Emory hoped no one caught him staring, slack-jawed, at the figures. They caused a fluttering in his gut, weird, and an erection to rise in his jeans. He reached down—he hoped subtly—to adjust himself.

  He paused with his beer midway to his mouth when he noticed what was on the news on the TV mounted above the bar. The sound was muted to accommodate the jukebox, someone wailing about how they’d survive, but the picture of Jeffrey Dahmer, in prison orange, caught his eye.

  Several other men turned to stare up at the screen as the newscaster’s mouth moved in front of the image of Dahmer.

  Someone nudged Emory. He turned and noticed the guy sitting next to him for the first time. He was relatively young, probably only a few years older than Emory himself. He had blond hair and a wispy beard and mustache. His eyes were a pale blue, and he wore a ribbed tank top, cargo shorts, and Converse high-tops.

  “They should lock that guy up and throw away the key, don’t you think?” He took a sip of some clear cocktail. “Or better yet, cut him up like he did to his victims. What a sicko!”

  Emory leaned back, recoiling. Shakily, he drank from his mug and then set it down, too hard, on the bar. “I thought, in this country, folks are innocent until proven guilty.”

  The guy snorted. “You shittin’ me? Oh, I think the body parts in his fridge were proof enough. Or maybe that gallon drum of whatever acid he used to dissolve the flesh of his victims. That’s pretty convincing, eh? Or maybe those skulls he kept?” He looked Emory up and down. “Man, are you nuts?”

  “Maybe I am,” Emory gathered himself up, feeling indignation. “Jeff’s a friend of mine. You just don’t understand him.”

  The guy eyed him for a long moment. “I don’t need or want to understand him. He’s a monster.”

  Before Emory could argue any more on Dahmer’s behalf, the guy picked up his drink and moved half a dozen stools away. He continued to eye Emory and leaned over to whisper something to the man next to him, who looked at Emory and frowned.

  Emory hunched over his beer. This was a bad idea. He’d come to the wrong place and didn’t belong here—didn’t belong in a gay bar, period. So what have you been doing in them lately? Deny much?

  “Don’t worry about them. They all hate themselves, Emory. And they’ll take it out on you.”

  Emory looked over at what had been an empty stool, its seat covered in black vinyl and patched with duct tape.

  Now the stool was occupied by a man who looked so familiar, it took Emory’s breath away. He had short blond hair, stubble, and wore a gray hoodie in spite of the heat. On his face was a look of amused, but weary boredom.

  “You can’t be. You’re not,” Emory stammered. With a shaking hand, he lifted his mug and drained the beer in a long swallow that ended with some of it dribbling down his chin. Irritated, he wiped the suds off his face and raised his hand to order another.

  Eric filled another mug, set it down in front of Emory, and took it away with no indication that a man who looked exactly like the most famous serial killer in the country was seated next to Emory. “Thirsty boy,” Eric said.

  Emory threw another buck on the bar and waited until Eric was busy helping other customers—a couple who’d just come in—before speaking again.

  “Not who? Not what?” The man gave him a sly grin.

  “Never mind.” Emory gulped down some more beer. And, because he was not used to drinking, he began to feel the effects of the alcohol—a little pleasant dizziness, a fuzziness.

  “You look an awful lot like—”

  The guy cut him off. “Don�
��t say it! Let’s not attract attention.”

  “Okay.” Emory glanced at the other patrons. It was getting more crowded as the hour grew later. Yet no one seemed to notice that Emory was seated next to a man who could be Jeffrey Dahmer’s twin.

  “Okay,” Emory repeated, grasping for something else to say. “What brings you out tonight?”

  He smiled. “The same thing that brought us all out, I guess. Looking for someone special. If not Mr. Right, then a Mr. Right Now.” He laughed. “Am I right?”

  Emory chuckled, but the alcohol, combined with a strong feeling that he’d slipped unwittingly into The Twilight Zone, made sitting here in this run-down, hole-in-the-wall bar seem unreal, like he was dreaming.

  And maybe he was.

  Perhaps he had drifted off to sleep and would awaken at first light, the sheets beneath him damp with sweat, and the image of Dahmer’s face imprinted on his memory.

  “I don’t know what I’m looking for. Certainly not Mr. Right. Or Mr. Wrong. Or whatever. I don’t even know if I’m gay.” Emory snorted, wondered if the guy would think he sounded like a fool or some self-loathing imbecile who had so little awareness of himself that he could make such a claim with a straight face.

  “Oh, you’re gay all right.” He winked. “Anybody can see that.”

  “Really?”

  The guy nodded. “Doesn’t make you a bad person.”

  “No, no, I guess it wouldn’t,” Emory responded. “I just haven’t figured things out yet.”

  “You have. You just haven’t come to terms with them yet.”

  Emory felt shaky—angry but scared and exposed too. “Oh, what do you know? We’ve never even met.”

  “Haven’t we?” The man raised his eyebrows. Emory noticed he had no drink in front of him.

  Flustered, Emory blurted out. “I need to use the restroom. Excuse me.” He slid from the stool and hurried toward the back. He rushed inside, grateful that the red-painted bathroom was a single and he could lock the door behind him. He crouched on the edge of the toilet without taking down his jeans and covered his face with his hands.

  You are losing it, man. Losing your fucking mind.

  He drew in several deep, quivering breaths, letting them out with a sigh. That’s not him. It’s not. That’s not even possible. It’s just someone who looks like him. And he’s aware; he knows it. He’s fucking with you.

  Someone tried the doorknob, rattling it, and Emory jumped. He got up and rinsed off his face.

  When he opened the door, he discovered no one waiting outside. Nobody even loitered nearby.

  I need to get home. It’s got to be going on one or even two. I have to work early in the morning, for crying out loud.

  He hurried back to the stool he’d occupied, expecting to say some words to the guy, to maybe offer an excuse for his hasty departure, but there was no one sitting on the stools on either side of him. He took a long look around the bar. Not one guy there looked like Dahmer.

  Odd. There was a fresh mug of beer at his place, untouched.

  He caught Eric’s eye. “I didn’t order this.”

  Eric shrugged. He didn’t seem as friendly as before. There was a coldness to his stare. “You don’t want it?”

  Emory shrugged. “It’s okay. I’ll drink it.” He climbed up on the stool and took a sip. He wanted to ask Eric who’d bought the beer for him. He needed to know if he’d seen where his lookalike acquaintance had gone.

  But Eric had turned his back to him, washing glasses in the sink below the bar.

  Hadn’t anyone else noticed the bizarre resemblance? Wasn’t anyone else as shaken as Emory? But the bar seemed blissfully unaware of the guy’s existence. They were blissfully unaware of Emory too.

  And maybe that was for the best.

  He finished his beer, ordered another one.

  And another….

  *

  Emory awoke with a start, tangled up in his top sheet, naked. Mother stood near him, back turned, dressed in a pink suit with a pillbox hat.

  “Mother,” he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “You look just like Jackie Kennedy.”

  She turned. The front of the dress was splattered with blood and brain matter.

  Emory shrieked.

  And he awoke, for real this time, to bright sunlight streaming in through his window. Dust motes danced in the air. A tiny little man, situated just behind his eyes, pounded on them with an ice pick, begging for release or at least relief.

  Emory had slept naked, something he never did.

  Emory burped and jumped from his bed, hand clasped over his mouth and made it to the bathroom just in time to throw up into the toilet. All that came out was yellowish bile that smelled of hops. He slumped back against the wall, stomach still heaving, face slick with sweat, and watched a cockroach skitter across the black-and-white tiled floor.

  The vomiting had at least given him some relief from the nausea, even though the headache still pounded in beats, timed to his pulse, just in back of his eyes. He glanced up at the old Herman Miller wall clock and saw that if he didn’t hurry, he was going to be late for work. So, he crawled from his place against the wall over to the clawfoot tub and switched the hot and cold water taps on. He waited until the water was a comfortable temperature and then flipped the switch for the shower. Gripping the side of the tub, he stepped in under the spray.

  As he turned under the warm water, he tried to recall what had happened last night. One thing he knew for sure—he had no recollection of climbing into bed. Indeed, he couldn’t remember how he got home from the bar.

  As he washed, he noticed more mysteries—his hands were scraped raw, as though he might have fallen at some point. When he moved the shower curtain aside and looked at himself in the medicine cabinet above the sink, he gasped. His left eye was swollen, and a red-and-purple bruise was making itself at home just beneath. He fingered it gingerly, wincing at the pain a feathery touch produced.

  As he dried off, an image came to him, and he didn’t know if it was real or if he imagined it. But in his mind’s eye, he saw a falling star in the inky eastern sky, rocketing downward toward Lake Michigan.

  He dressed hurriedly and set out for the L.

  As he walked down Granville, there was a commotion in the alley behind the Forge. The whole alley was alive with cops and their vehicles. Crime scene tape. The squawk of police radios. Whirling blue lights.

  And worst of all, a body on the ground, covered, but still it was obvious this had been a person. The sight of it turned Emory’s stomach once more, and he gripped the brick wall for support, heaving, and praying he wouldn’t throw up again. But the body just lying there in the grease-stained brick alley, surrounded by discarded trash, made his heart lurch as well.

  A young woman, in a teal-blue sundress and oversized sunglasses, also watched the scene, her jaw dropped in horror.

  Emory leaned in to her to ask, “Do you know what happened?”

  She jumped at the sound of his voice.

  Am I invisible to everyone?

  Her dark eyes appraised him. “A guy got killed here last night. Or I guess it would be early this morning, from what I’m hearing.”

  “Does anyone know who it was? Someone from the neighborhood?” Emory’s mouth was dry. “How did it happen?”

  She shrugged. “I imagine they’ll cover it on the news.” She looked him up and down, and Emory felt she found him wanting. “I got to get to work.” Her voice was barely audible.

  Emory took one last look at the shrouded body and then made his way to the train.

  *

  It wasn’t until he was headed home that Emory got some answers. In the lobby of his office building, a vendor sold magazines and newspapers from a little kiosk. Emory picked up a Sun Times for the ride home.

  The story made the lower half of the front page. Emory grew sicker and sicker as he realized he knew the guy who’d been killed in that alley. His name was Eric Nowak, and he lived on the city’s west side, i
n Norwood Park.

  He’d worked as a bartender at the Forge bar, on Granville Avenue, for the last three years.

  “What are you having tonight, handsome?”

  There was a picture of Eric Nowak, but without knowing details, Emory would have never recognized him as the one who’d served him the night before. The picture, maybe a high school graduation photo, showed a clean-cut young man with curly blond hair and pale-blue eyes. He wore a sport coat and tie. This Eric was nothing like the bartender who’d waited on him, with his Fu Manchu mustache and shaved head.

  People can change a lot in a very short time.

  This was the same guy. It had to be.

  What happened to him?

  And where did the time from last night go?

  When Emory got to his front door, there was a letter propped up against it. One of the neighbors must have gotten it in their mailbox by mistake. Thank God, they didn’t open it.

  It was another missive from Dahmer.

  Chapter Seven

  “I don’t know what to think about him. Or, maybe, what I should do about him.” Mary Helen lit a cigarette and blew the smoke at the fan in the window, which only sent it back their way.

  “Your brother?” Liz pulled the sheet up over their sweaty bodies and patted the bed. Their dog, Zorro, an odd mix of Labrador and Dachshund, all black, hopped up to join them.

  “Who else?”

  “I thought you were done with all that.”

  Mary Helen didn’t blame Liz for the characterization. For months before her mother passed away, Mary Helen complained to Liz about how stultifying it was to live in the grimy little apartment with her older brother and the mom who was dying from AIDS. She’d railed about how she wasn’t sure which of the pair was crazier. She’d wished aloud for her mother to die, couching it as kindness, an end to her suffering.

  But the truth was, Mary Helen simply wanted to be free. It was a burden, living with all that pain and misery, especially when there was no way she could find to alleviate it. But leaving? She simply didn’t have the heart to do it while Mother was still breathing.

  She’d thought once death came, as it inevitably would, she could leave and never look back. But she’d forgotten one thing—deep in her heart, where she couldn’t logically deny it—she really loved her big brother.